Natasha burst through the freshly opened door, and scraped against the floor in Loki's dwelling barefoot, pacing back and forth, her fingers grooving into her brow. She knew she looked morbidly insane; possibly schizophrenic. But, she's seen the worst of Loki; she didn't care if he saw the worst of her.

"Natasha," Loki stated, and he gently touched her forearm, stopping her rapid movement. He felt instantly awkward, and withdrew his fingers, confused as why she chose to come to him for so called 'help.' At least she maintained poor eye contact, so that he didn't feel the uncomfortable heat of her gaze. She refused to look at him in a way as if he was a stranger who had approached her on the street, offering her canned tomatoes.

She stopped pacing, and finally looked up at him, unblinking; her eyes surrounded by a fading maroon ring, and her hands knotting and twisting her nightshirt.

He took two long steps, and closed the gaping door quietly. He was admittedly shocked to find her in this way, with ragged, dampened hair, and an expression of an animal out in the wild. "Why did you come here?" he asked, confused. At first he had believed she was angry with him; but for what for, he did not know. He had expressed his apologies to the best of his efforts, and she had not only tolerated that, she accepted that, she ran through the stinging rain just because she felt remorse.

It was all very foreign to him. Apologies. Remorse.

So, then, why was she here? What kind of 'help' could he possibly offer her? She looked ready to snatch the tie splayed on top of his neglected suit he threw upon his bed, and fabricate a noose out of it. He would say that she even appeared to be on the verge of a mental breakdown, but, he was once in that dark place, and he knew if anyone had jested at that, he would not have taken it well.

"I need your help," Natasha repeated, blinking furiously, as if she had a speck of dust entangled in her eye.

"On-" Loki started, but she interrupted him crudely.

"Do you have any magic left?" she rasped, stepping in front of him, her eyes bulging wide, and her skin like gray taffy stretched tight over sandpaper. Precipitation winked at the creases of her eyes, and her bottom lip had a drastic line splitting the cracked lip into two.

"Magic?" asked Loki, almost as if it was a term he had never heard of before, "Are you mocking me?" She didn't appear to be in a gaming mood, but the statement was still so absurd it had taken him aback.

"Answer me honestly, god-DAMN IT LOKI," Natasha shouted, tearing away a random shred of hair that had chosen the wrong time to fall in her face.

"I cannot perform spells, or any forms of sorcery at this current moment, as you very well know. Why are you asking me this at such a late hour?" he asked, and then yawned for effect, pretending like he had been sleeping.

"You're a liar, Macbeth is lying on your bed, wide open. You were awake as awake could be," Natasha cried, her voice like an out of tune piano.

"Alright, I'm sorry," Loki said, extending his hands out in a symbol of peace, unsure why he had been hit with this torrent, but simultaneously, unwilling to douse the yearning flame to soothe her ache, to peer into her mindset…

"I keep-" Natasha began, and then abruptly cut herself off, choosing to pace erratically around the room once more, swaying, and almost face planted on the carpet, due to her ankles, which kept knocking into each other.

Loki was worried that she would collapse, and grabbed a chair leaning against the wall. He guided her along, and she flopped into it, her head swinging to the side.

"Tell me," Loki said to her, his curiosity peaked.

"I keep having nightmares," she whispered.

"About what?"

"Things."

"Memories?"

"I don't know."

"I have nights like that."

"You do?"

"Yes."

"Are you lying?" she bent forward to study his face with apprehension, but all she could see were sincere expressions emulating from his eyes and mouth.

"You would be able to tell if I was," he reasoned.

"That is true."

"How can I possibly help you?"

"Don't you have some sort of, well, I know you can't do spells, but, look Loki, I have a lot of false memories, and I need to figure out which ones are real, they're all blacked out, murky, confusing-" she hiccupped, "I'm sorry, I'm making no sense."

"Go on, I can understand you quite clearly," he replied, actually following her stream of consciousness.

"I want you to help me expose the truth," Natasha whispered.

Loki was stuck in a place where he did not want to be. Should he tell her the truth about her sister? Or should she find out on her own? It seemed like an awkward time to express such a traumatizing truth, one that would like that. Maybe he'd just deal with that later, although he knew it'd haunt him later.

Why, why would she ask him? He knew, he knew that the Avengers saw him as evil, as maniacal, why would one ask a certified lunatic to delve into the dreary puddle that was their mind, to find the single shimmering coin lying beneath the dirt that covered all clarity? Why?

It was back to that goddamn hero theory, he thought. He was not a hero. He should not be doing this.

A hero would tell Natasha the truth about Anna, because heroes always did what was right, no matter who they hurt, no matter what damage they left in their wake.

It wasn't something you could just spring on somebody, he reasoned in his mind, and, in her current condition, he might as well buy his own coffin and lie in it.

His train of thought was severed by her abrupt clearing of the throat, and her glassy stare at the clock mounted above the fireplace, taunting her with its eerie melody, of a steady, tick-TICK, tick-TICK, tick-TICK.

Loki focused back on what was needed to be done, so that he could wrap up the loose ends of this utter disaster.

Her memories…her memories… what was in it for him?

Knowledge. It was a virtue much overlooked, but nevertheless, it was of incredibly importance to him. It was the true fruit of life, the very thing that had propelled him to seek dominance, to roam the everlasting lands that stretched into the depths of the universe. His thirst was never satiated, and he thought it certainly justifiable to break someone down who was almost as complex as he was.

Setting this aside, he did want her to recover her memories, also, for some reason- maybe as compensation for his own. Of course, he could not perform any sort of spell on her that would snap her memory back to order completely, and immediately- even if he did have his magic. However, he could perform hypnosis- it did not require magic, but rather skilled fingers and a calm, almost soporific voice, and also, the correct words to speak to the person to project them wherever they needed to go. He rarely ever performed this task, as Odin was not exactly fond of it, but he was willing to try this measure with Natasha.

"Are you familiar with hypnosis?" he asked her.

She stopped fidgeting in the chair.

Natasha was lying flat on her back on the bed, which Loki had swept clear of any garments, books, coins, or other superficial things. He twisted the gilded knob situated on the left side of a lamp adjacent to the bed, cutting off the source of light in the room. The room was now pitch black, forming theatrical caricatures out of mundane objects in the room; the mirror's shadow appeared to be a serpent with an unhinged jaw, preparing to engulf whatever unfortunate specimen that decided to cross its path.

He could barely make out the soft planes of her face, but he could at least hear her soft, rhythmic breaths. He could do hypnosis, he had told her, and he said that in order to perform this, she'd need to lie on a flat surface, and be completely, utterly calm.

She had made few inquiries involving the process of hypnosis, which had surprised him at first, due to her doubtful nature, but her steady disposition, and unwavering demands made him realize that she was quite, quite desperate. Of course, he was also just as desperate- maybe even more- to escape the horrors that plagued his mind, but, he knew that he deserved every last bit of monstrosity. To be redeemed was a meticulous path, and he must overcome this journey alone.

The little spider seemed confident wrapped in her warm blanket of solitude- she did have that mouthy archer to keep her company, but ultimately, he noticed that any moments of lassitude for her were rare, and if they did occur, they were away from the public eye.

Now, Loki assumed that his dreams were evanescent- that they'd fade in time, like the serrated slopes of mountains bordering a turbulent sea. To accept help from anybody- oh, that was vulgar, obscene, he could not imagine shattering his iron façade with-

"Loki?" Natasha said, her voice piercing through the dark cloud of Loki's thoughts, "Are we starting this or not?"

"Of course," he smirked.

"Close your eyes," he commanded.

She did so.

"You must be in a state of pure relaxation," he drawled.

"First…"

He ordered her to relax parts of her body in chronological order, from her clenched toes to her rigid calf muscles, all the way to her tense biceps, and to her eyes, which were screwed into vexation.

"Take in a deep breath," he ordered, as he noticed that she had begun to slightly hyperventilate.

She did so, and after he affirmed that she was completely relaxed, he began the process.

"The universe is endless," he said. "A multitude of fragmented light, of worlds far away that we do not know of…

Imagine the universe without this, without light, without worlds, without even a single star, but rather an abyss…one that you can peer into all that you may like, but you'd never find anything."

"Now, imagine, a stripe of light has been thrust onto this blank canvas, but, it's hard to distinguish, and, appears to be a variety of colors, depending on who you ask. Take upon your own color, imagine that stripe invigorating…multiplying…layer upon layer, until the canvas is overwhelmed by this color…"

Loki spoke softly, but with conviction, making sure to add appropriate pauses where needed. The fluttering movement beneath Natasha's eyelids had slowed, indicating that she was now in a light sleep. He placed an index finger against each of her temples, and closed his eyes, squinting shut, trying to dig for even a sliver of his magic, of the old power that coursed through his veins, to perhaps probe into her mind…

"Imagine," he spoke gruffly, "That this color is forming…forming a person, a person you know, a person who loved you, fed you, coddled you…your mother."

A surge of hot light burst in front of his eyes, and he was threatened with a spark of images, which had dissipated as quickly as they had come. She breathed in sharply, but then settled back to her serene composition on the bed.

"Imagine," he continued, "That, as the abyss is swallowed by this colorful world, that you're…running to your mother, of that whom was there…"

He removed his fingers from the side of her head. He wanted to send her to a person who he knew was real; Barton had said that Natasha's mother was alive for a memorable portion of her life, and if Loki could send her to a memory of that, he might be able to set the fragile foundation of the bridge of truth.

He glanced at her, and smirked, knowing his work had been efficient.

She was now in REM sleep.

The door swung open, revealing a woman of thirty years, squeezing a tan grocery bag in the crook of her arm. She closed the door softly, and set the heavy bag down upon the floor; the weight of which felt as if it were full of rocks, rather than nutritional necessities.

She swept tendrils of dark red hair away from her face into a ponytail, and as she was doing so, she called out, "Tasha! Dollenka!"

"Coming," a voice echoed from the bedroom chamber, which was squished against its counterpart, and lined with paper-thin walls to deteriorate any hopes of privacy. The apartment in itself was a disaster, she noted with the familiar disdain, as she walked through the kitchen. The apartment was cramped, and almost always covered in a film of dirt, which chose to reside in the cracks between the tiles, and hug the fading polka dot wallpaper placed randomly about the house. She labored intensively to remove any traces of garbage, but it always seemed to reappear within a span of mere minutes. Pests and various other insects resided in the columns in the wall, and often times, leaked through holes in the structure, creeping into every crevice of their beds, and sometimes popping up in their food.

Not to mention, the atmosphere was not pleasant in any way. The temperature was never stable, and either ranged from overbearingly hot, to shivering cold. Winters were torture upon the two souls residing in the apartment; firewood as brought in from the outskirts of the city by her 'boyfriend', Mikhail, and she and her daughter would sleep by the fireplace at times, if it was too much to bear.

The summers, on the other hand, were sticky hot, and the smells were overbearing, even though they were clean; the pollution would infiltrate the soft air with vile odors of smoke, and the deadened insects would release less than wholesome wafts.

This was the best she could do, given her circumstances, and measly paychecks that were slapped in her quivering hand from time to time were spent solely on food.

Speaking of which, she unloaded the food she had just purchased onto the counter. She grabbed two potatoes, washed them, and then set them on a cutting board in preparation along with a butcher knife.

Before she started to slice through the vegetables, she walked over to her daughter's door, and knocked softly.

"Natalia?" she said. She swung open the door to reveal her daughter, lying on her stomach on her bed, and sketching something in a notebook with a piece of charcoal.

Natasha raised her head, with a slightly dazed expression on her face, and then placed her legs over the edge of the bed and stood, stretching her sore limbs, which had been confined for far too long. "Hello, Mama."

"Hello yourself, dollenka," she answered, and pecked her daughter on the cheek. "How was school?"

"Fine, I guess," Natasha said. "Sorry I didn't answer you before. I was kind of busy."

"That's all right, I was starting to get a bit worried, but I know that your head gets stuck in the clouds when you draw," she laughed, smiling. "Can I see what you drew?"

"No!" Natasha said, taking a protective step back. "It's private!"

"Alright, alright," her mother laughed, shaking her head. "Whatever you say, dollenka. How about you come into the kitchen and keep me company?"

Natasha followed her mother into the tiny kitchen, and sat upon a creaky stool that bordered the table. She watched her mother meticulously slice the potato into even pieces.

"Can you fetch a pot, please?" her mother murmured, setting aside the freshly cut pieces, and dicing the second potato.

Natasha grabbed a medium sized pot from the cabinet below the stove, and set it on the counter. She filled the pot with water, and set it aside. After igniting the stove with a match taken from a slim packet hidden in a cupboard, she repositioned the pot, and watched her mother finish with the kitchen preparations.

Once the food was ready, they crowded in at the table, and dug into the potatoes, which were accompanied by warm bread, and cheese. It was a meager meal, but tasty all the same, even though it was lacking in spices. Natasha knew better than to complain; it was not her mother's fault after all that they were in this predicament. It was, of course, him, but that was not something she dared to say out loud. A jail sentence would be an unnecessary addition to the steadily growing pile of problems the family faced.

As the day waned to the inevitable throes of nightfall, lights in the city slowly began to flicker out. As this was happening, Natasha's mother closed the drapes, and threw a burning match into the fireplace. They huddled by it in worn blankets, salvaging whatever form of body heat they possibly could. As the flames cracked, and the heat kissed their frozen faces, Natasha's mother turned to her, and said,

"Now, this isn't too bad, is it?"

"No," replied Natasha, truthfully. "Dinner was really good tonight."

"Really? You think so?" her mother beamed.

"Really."

"It means a lot, dollenka." Her hand squeezed her daughter's.

They were silent for a few minutes. Natasha shivered involuntarily, and her mother removed her own blanket, and wrapped it around her daughter's shoulders. As soon as she did this, Natasha shrugged off the blanket, and wrapped it around her mother's bony shoulders once more.

"No, Mama."

"Dollenka, just take the blanket," she said, almost harshly.

"No, I'm fine," Natasha insisted. "Really."

"I don't want you to freeze, along with starve. I'm sorry, I really am, I try-"

"Mama," Natasha said, interrupting her. She gently held her mother's face in between her hands, and said, "You work three jobs, often until late, and yet you manage to keep us fed, and safe. I love you. Don't apologize."

Her mother nodded, with slight tears in her eyes. They were gone in an instant. She never cried. She wouldn't start now. Throughout the work day, she'd 'grin and bear it', so to speak, and never once complained, or broke down in front of anybody, not even Natasha.

But today, she felt that she had been oddly sentimental. Maybe it was because she couldn't stand to see her daughter shiver like that, to crave warmth, something which she wished she could provide her, but could not. They had faced tough times. But, she hoped that these experiences would cause her daughter to develop into a moralistic, strong young woman,who knew how to make it through the best of times, and the worst of times.

She finally stood up, cringing at the creaky qualities her bones had been recently displaying, and put on a kettle of tea for her and Natasha, a pre- bedtime routine. After it had boiled, she set aside two small cups, and poured the black tea into them. They cupped the hot beverage with chilled fingers, blowing on it occasionally, to prevent the crisis called the 'burned tongue.'

After their usual routine of sipping tea, which was tasty, even without sugar or honey, they began to prepare for bed. Natasha and her mother brushed their teeth in the bathroom, and then took turns in the small wash-bin, scrubbing hard with the cheap, industrial soap everyone used- which did its job, but treated the skin roughly. They however, did not care, as they'd rather deal with occasional peeling, than full on body odor.

Natasha kissed her mother goodnight, wrapping her arms around her skinny frame, and resting her chin upon her mother's shoulder.

"I love you, dollenka," her mother whispered into her ear.

"I love you too," Natasha whispered back.

Natasha was swathed in as many blankets as their apartment could provide her, and her bed's various lumps and bumps did not irritate her as they usually did, but still, sleep evaded her. She was wide awake, and listening to the jumble of noises in the city, her mind overwrought with a bundle of thoughts. It was not as if she had torments, or regrets, really, it's just that her mind always took a while to sort itself out in order to let her-self sleep.

She had tried forcing herself to receive some shut-eye, but it was a futile effort. She did wish that she got more sleep, as mornings would prove to be difficult, and there was a shortage of coffee in the city.

Eventually, after a series of tosses and turns, Natasha's eyes fluttered shut, and she slumped against her pillow, her arm splayed casually across the sea of sheets.

A loud thunk jarred Natasha from her once-peaceful haven of sleep a few hours later, and she sat up in bed, her hair mussed, and an annoyed expression on her face. What the hell was that? As she began peeling away the thin sheets from her body, she heard the same loud thunk once more, that sent her heart racing.

In the opposite bedroom, she heard the sheets rustle, which meant that her mother would inevitably get up, and check the door, as that was the sound of a person knocking. Natasha realized this quickly, which caused her stomach to recoil in fear, as there was one person, and one person only, who produced that signature knock.

She heard her mother emit a shaky yawn, and then creak the door open. The floorboards whined as the newcomer entered the apartment.

"Where's your payment?" the voice demanded, his tone spoiled with dark tidings.

"I already gave it to you," her mother explained. "Yesterday."

"It wasn't enough."

"Mikhail, look, it's- it's past midnight- a-and, we can always negotiate, um tomorrow-"

A sharp clap resonated in the area, followed by an audible yelp, on the counterpart of her mother. Natasha sprang out of bed, her heart beating a staccato against her feeble chest. A drop of sweat raced down her rigid spine. She crept towards the door, and placed her ear against it, trembling.

"I don't care what time it is, don't talk that way to me," the man said.

Silence ensued.

Then, the man said, "We will resume our payment now- or else-"

"My daughter's here, we can't-"

The door that Natasha had been leaning on was burst open, slamming the wooden material into the side of her head, and sending her flying to the floor. Before she could register what was going on, she felt a sturdy hand grip her hair, and tug her to her feet. Her scalp was screaming, and through pain-induced tears, she saw the blurred image of her mother, reaching out to her with feeble hands.

She was dropped to the floor, where her right knee bashed into it hard, shooting shocking bursts of pain through her thigh. She ignored the throbbing sensation, and pushed herself up with her palms, turning to face the man who had endangered her so.

Mikhail had a cigarette propped in his mouth, emitting puffs of grey smoke, his mouth open in a sneer. His eyes were shadowy, partially concealed by his fur cap. His coat did nothing to hide his bulging muscles, which threatened to burst out of the flimsy fabric at any moment.

"Natalia," her mother said, in a very calm voice, "Please go back to your room."

"No," Natasha said, staring Mikhail straight in the eyes.

"Natalia," her mother whispered, "Please."

"I can't do that," Natasha said, quivering internally at the never changing composition.

"Do what your mother told you, little girl," Mikhail spat.

Natasha stood her ground. Mikhail ignored her completely, and shoved her briskly aside, groping for her mother. In the process of trying to cram his hand into the confines of her nightgown, his cigarette fell out of his mouth, and hit the floor.

It went unnoticed by the trio.

"Let go of her!" Natasha screamed, and, before Mikhail could stop her, she clamped her teeth around his forearm, biting so hard, her mouth was soon filled with the metallic taste of blood. He swore, and shook her off, hard, and she hit the floor once more. His boot collided with her ribcage, and a sharp crack indicated that a rib had been broken. Screaming, Natasha was hauled off by Mikhail, who dragged her into her bedroom. Her mother raced along, yelling for Mikhail to not commit whatever atrocity he had in his mind.

As Mikhail drew his fist back, preparing to pummel through Natasha's face, her mother caught his elbow, which then slammed into her nose, breaking it.

Natasha sprang loose, and then ran through the bedroom door to the kitchen, in hopes of finding a weapon.

What she did find, when she came into contact with the kitchen, was not what she had expected.

The wood was roast with flame, which had spread to the billowing curtains encasing the window, and the table, which was slowly starting to rot black.

Natasha screamed, "FIRE! FIRE!" But no one was heeding her warning. As she raced back into the bedroom, she saw her mother cowering at the force of Mikhail's furious yells, with spittle occasionally flying into her face.

"THERE'S A FIRE!" she screamed. They still did not hear her, and she resumed screaming the urgent message, until they finally understood what was going on.

The three gaped in shock at the burning kitchen, with flames that were now dispersing, and has blocked the door way completely.

"The bathroom, the bathroom has a window," her mother gasped, but before they could do anything, Mikhail suddenly grabbed Natasha's mother tightly in the back of her nightgown, wrenching her back.

"You didn't pay my debt," he growled. "I think this will suffice." He suddenly punched her, hard, and she flew to the floor. He grabbed Natasha, who was kicking, screaming, and beating her fists upon his shoulder, which had no effect. He stormed into the bathroom, then, with one arm wrapped around her torso, and punched the window, sending glass shards flying to the wind. He lifted her, and she grasped his arms with her fingernails, determined to hold on. He began to shake her off his grip, and she screamed, still fighting to hang out. Finally, he shook her off, but she caught herself on the ledger, hanging on tight with slippery hands. Looking up at him, she whispered, "Please, please don't hurt my mama, please-"

He kicked her in the face, causing her hands to release their hold, and she cascaded down, screaming, her legs kicking in a comical way, mimicking those funny cartoons in those books she liked to read.

The cold air rushed around her, and there was nothing, all she could see was Mikhail's delighted face, and the flame, the flame which destroyed, which plundered, her mother, the fire, the home, the hit, the miss, the love that was so tainted, all because-

She hit the ground then.

Her screams pierced through the dark calm that Loki had established in the room, and he immediately propelled himself out of the chair he had placed at her bedside. She was thrashing about on the bed, her legs kicking wildly, and her head repeatedly slamming back, over, and over, and over again. He gripped her shoulders, and yelled,

"NATASHA, WAKE UP. WAKE UP NOW!"

Her screams persisted. He shook her harder, but she was still jerking about. Her elbow nearly missed his nose, and he threw her down upon the bed.

By the gods.

Normally, he was always able to awake the people he had hypnotized, but Natasha was an entirely different case. Maybe, maybe this had to do with his damned magic being out of his reach. He flicked on the light in order to see, and then scooped Natasha up, wincing at the brutality of her thrusting limbs, which were attempting to jar the bones in his face apart. He dragged her to the bathroom, deposited her on the floor, and then turned the shower on.

He opened the clear door, and then threw her under the ice-cold rays. She jolted awake, her body tensing as if she had been hit by lightning, and she screamed as she was pummeled by the slaps of water bestowed upon her.

"NATASHA!" he yelled, and wrenched the door open. She clamored out, resting her hands on the edge of the marble surface of the sink.

"Why-why was I in the shower?"

"You wouldn't wake up."

"I thought you, all powerful Loki, could-"

He clamped a hand over her mouth suddenly, and then dodged the inevitable kick she thrust out at him, angled directly at his most sensitive part.

"You," he said, removing his hand from her mouth, "You need to stop this. You are out from the hypnosis. I'm sorry I had to do this. Obviously-"

"No," she interrupted.

"Excuse me?"

I wasn't thinking straight," she said. "You know how odd it was for me to wake up in the shower, with you standing right there? It was pretty weird."

"You were screeching like a schizophrenic baboon!"

"I was?" Natasha said, her face coloring.

"Yes. What did you see?" he asked her.

"I am not telling you," she snapped.

"Fine," he said.

They stared at each other for an uncomfortable length of time, until a smile started to twitch upon Loki's stoic lips. Natasha chuckled, then, shaking her head.

"No one can know about this, Loki. Especially not to Clint."

Loki raised an eyebrow, "A-"

"Shut it," Natasha warned, waggling her index finger.

"As you wish," he said, rolling his eyes.

"No one can know, though, in all seriousness."

"I am aware."

"Loki, why did you help me? It definitely wasn't to be 'nice.'"

"You barged into my room like a maniac," Loki reasoned.

"You could have just kicked me out."

Well, he could have, she was right.

"That was not the right thing to do," he said.

"And you're an expert on that?"

"Why are you trying to anger me, when I have just done you a favor?" he growled. "Or tried, at least."

Natasha was quiet for a moment, staring at the ground. She turned to leave then, and walked out of the area. Loki followed her closely behind.

She opened the door, and Loki glared at her, wondering why in Valhalla he'd offered to help this insensitive brute of a-

"Thank you," Natasha said, quietly. "I mean it."

The door gently swayed shut.

Author's note:

Here's an early update! Just cause I love you guys to pieces :)

Anyways, after this chapter, there will be great expansion of Loki and Natasha's relationship, and scenarios between the two. The more serious chapters will be reserved for later, if you don't like it.

I hope the hypnosis stuff didn't sound too corny.

I decided not to put Natasha and her mother's conversation into Russian, because there was a lot of dialogue, and I didn't want people to get all confused, and spend time trying to figure it out.

By the way, the 'city' is Stalingrad, and, you guys probably know this, but Natasha's real name is Natalia.

Also, as I said before, this story is Loki centric, and will go back to him on that fine line of good versus bad. I don't want to get sidetracked from that!

-skywriter23

xoxo